


The Tale of the Dancer and the Bird

by hopefullyanauthor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Pining, Roman AU, Yuuri has anxiety, because why not, but no actual smut, saramila, seungchuchu - Freeform, unrequited Chris/Victor, unrequited Phichit/Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefullyanauthor/pseuds/hopefullyanauthor
Summary: Tonight, the unseen eyes of this ancient road are on two boys sat around a small fire, each one running from something. The fierce one with the black eyes, he is the one who will tell the story. The sweet one with laugh lines around his mouth will listen with the rest.“Would you like to hear a story? It's a legend I was told a long time ago, about a young man who was in love, and a bird that could cure all ills. It might- It might help you to...to think about something else for a while. Just for tonight.”





	The Tale of the Dancer and the Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jellyfish_Tacos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellyfish_Tacos/gifts).



> This is my (very sketchy) Roman AU for the RareShips On Ice! fic exchange! I hope you like it! 
> 
> (Please forgive me if it sounds a little rushed in places, I really left this to the last minute!)

YOI Rarepairs Fic: The Tale of the Dancer and the Bird

 

AD 80: Neapolis

 

It is past midnight on a rocky pass, cloaked in velveteen darkness in spite of the nearby city's fires. The path twists round the side of a mountain, holding tight to its harsh crags that force the road to fold inwards on itself like a ribbon. If there was wind, sand would sweep across the limestone and gravel with an echoing _swish_ _swish_ that would fool you into thinking someone had rushed by and darted out of sight, just round the next corner.

But there is no wind tonight, not in midsummer, when the night peels each day's heat away from the soil layer by layer, thread by thread. The air is still and dry, and there are no sounds to be heard for miles. Somehow this place is a beacon of silence.

The mountainous landscape is sparse and overgrown: this is an old road. It has felt the tread of many a traveller, and witnessed many ages fall and rise. For now, the people here are thriving, part of an empire that thinks too much of itself. They no longer use this road, with its many twists and turns, they do not care for its atmosphere of mystery; some go so far as to call it cursed. Instead, they build new roads, through the hills, or over the sea, or under it, their leaders constantly searching for something to pin down on a map and claim.

Those who watch over the road do not dwell on such trivialities. Why bother watching the same old story play out when there are better ones to be had? Better, far better, to attend those who choose the old road. They always have new stories to tell.

Tonight, the unseen eyes of the road are on two boys sat around a small fire, each one running from something. The fierce one with the black eyes, he is the one who will tell the story. The sweet one with laugh lines around his mouth will listen with the rest.

Before the story, though, must come the argument. There is always an argument, and it is, of course, the fierce one who attacks first.

“So you ran away, is that it? Sounds pretty arrogant to me.”

His unwilling adversary clenches his fists, biting back tears.

“I couldn't stay there! What was I supposed to do?”

“That's no way to treat good people who took you in like that - seems to me you're throwing it back in their faces.”

“Well, it's lucky no one asked you, isn't it?”

The fierce one looks surprised for a moment: it turns out this pretty youth with laugh-lines around his eyes can bite back. He stays silent as the boy breaks down into sobs.

“I mean, I know it's ungrateful, but what else could I do? I couldn't- I- Living without...without _him_ was impossible after I realised... .”

He looks up at the dark-haired boy, whose frown is bathed in the orange glow of the flames. “You understand? I was...I _am_ in love with him. I had to leave. I have to find him again! It was better than...staying there and feeling more and more guilty because I owed him so much – my own _life_. You see?”

A twig snaps in the fire between them. The plea hangs in the air, before drifting, feather-like, to the ground at the fierce one's feet.

“I understand,” he says, not breaking their eye contact. And then: “I'm sorry.”

This is the silence after the argument. There is always a silence. The two boys are swallowed up in their own thoughts, blissfully unaware that just outside of the firelit haze that surrounds them, the darkness hides invisible listeners.

The smaller boy, the pretty one, is thinking of his family. Not the surrogate one he is currently running from, nor his true parents and his little sister, who are far away over the sea by now if the gods are kind.

No, his mind's eye centres on a young man, aged around 23, 24, his nervous mouth set in a firm line as he heaves with all of his might. The boy remembers rubble and ash, still falling like burning snow around the two of them, and he remembers a numbness that threatened to swallow him up, but the hand holding his was determined. He remembers the young man's eyes giving him away as Eastern, like himself. He remembers the name Yuuri, and that he was going to take a ship from Rome back to the lands of the East, though no one had ever done that. It is impossible to know if he will ever see Yuuri again. For now he leafs through yellowing memories, searching for some sign that he is doing the right thing.

Sat across from him, the fierce one's black eyes are fixed on his face. He, for his part, has never known any family, and doesn't bother with thinking about where he came from: there is only where he will go. Those who watch the road have seen his kind before, many, many times. It is no surprise to them that he cannot tear his gaze away from the sight of tears running down golden-brown cheeks, looking like little flames themselves as each drop reflects the bonfire.

“Would you like,” he begins hesitantly, “To hear a story?” The large brown eyes lift to meet his own, and he continues, a little flustered. “It's a legend I was told a long time ago, about a young man who was in love, and a bird that could cure all ills. It might-” he falters again, “It might help you to...to think about something else for a while. Just for tonight.”

When the other boy nods and gathers his woollen tunics up around him, the fierce one swallows.

The ones who watch the road are watching him now.

Now he will tell his tale.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Once upon a time, in the age of kings, a young prince succeeded to his throne.

 

“ _What was the prince like?” asks the pretty one, wide-eyed, which earns him a frown from the storyteller. “Did he have a name?”_

“ _Handsome, I suppose? The handsomest prince in the land. And very kind. He doesn't have a name that I know of.”_

“ _Call him Yuuri!” blurts the pretty one before he can stop himself, then looks at the ground again, ashamed. “...I mean. He could be called Yuuri, right?”_

“ _Fine, Prince Yuuri. Now stop interrupting me.”_

 

Once upon a time, in the age of kings, a young prince succeeded to his throne. His name was Prince Yuuri, and the people of the kingdom rejoiced that they had gained such a handsome, wise ruler, who was so generous that he set aside an entire month for festivities to celebrate the start of his reign. The years ahead looked prosperous, since the previous king had left his son in good financial stead, so no expense was spared for the celebration. There were bonfires lit every night, and huge feasts where rich and poor alike to sit down to talk and laugh. Coloured streamers line the roads, and there seemed to be music playing wherever you went.

Of course, the grandest event of all was the night of the official coronation, the last night of the month, when a huge parade was held through the streets of the capital, followed by thousands of people singing and dancing and cheering their new monarch.

When the crowds arrived in the square outside the huge temple where the new king was being blessed, they all fell into a hushed silence. This was a sacred moment, because the gods were to give the young king a sign of their approval. No one but the king and the highest priest was allowed into the temple – the rites were a closely kept secret. The people didn't care much about this, though; what they really wanted to see was their new ruler in royal finery – purple robes and golden rings. They waited in the square for almost an hour, when suddenly the drummers struck up a deep thrumming roll the vibrated through the stones, and the audience erupted into cheers as they caught their first glimpses of King Yuuri.

But something was unusual about him. This king who had so generously ordered a month-long party was not dressed in any finery at all. Instead, he was wearing merely a plain white robe, with no embellishment. If he had not been wearing a thin golden circlet on his head, it would have been impossible to distinguish him from any other citizen. He was not standing with his arms raised in greeting, nor was he smiling. Some of the less kind members of the audience would have called him 'cowardly'.

And yet he held himself upright, and stared out over his silent subjects.

Suddenly, from the shoulders of her father in the middle of the crowd, a little girl began to clap.

“I can see the King, Papa!” she cried out happily, and she waved her starfish hands in the air. “Hello Mister King!”

When he heard the child's laughter, King Yuuri appeared to snap out of his trance. He smiled back at her without thinking, and waved his hand to her from his podium.

The audience were delighted to see their new king behave so humbly for a child, and they began to cheer and clap him once again, continuing to chant his name long after he had been escorted out of the square.

And so the festivities continued into the night.

The king's palace, of course, invited all of the best entertainers to perform for the king and his court throughout the evening. It was there, in the palace gardens, that the fateful event occurred.

 

“ _What fateful event?”_

“ _I was about to tell you if you hadn't interrupted me.”_

“ _Oops. Carry on, I won't interrupt any more.”_

 

One of the dancers, Chris, who had been hired for one of the last performances of the night since his brand of dancing was... too mature for the younger members of the court, was walking through the gardens as the sun was setting. He was rehearsing his steps in his head, stopping occasionally to twist an arm through the air by a rose bush or a hydrangea – dancing was his calling, and this was going to be the most important performance of his life. There was no way he was going to make a mistake.

Chris had many admirers throughout the kingdom, and was arguably famous across the land. He was a good-looking young man, with long, innocent lashes that framed his dangerous green eyes, and sandy-blonde hair that curled down to his tanned shoulders. Dancing all his life had shaped his body so beautifully that it was rumoured he had modelled for some of the sculptors of the god Apollo.

That said, there was no doubt that Chris' talent, and not his beauty, had won him his fame. He could tell thousands of stories through dance, and he had done. He could hold an audience spellbound with a slow pantomime of the tale of the nymph Daphne, who had chosen to transform into the first laurel tree rather than lose her virtue, or have them all on the edge of their seats as he danced a fierce battle scene.

Chris' commission for tonight, though, was his personal favourite kind of dance. Tonight, he was dancing as _Fervor_ , the invoker of sensuality, the personification of seduction. There was nothing he liked better than having the audience wrapped around his finger, teasing them, daring them not to look away. Yes, Chris enjoyed the _Fervor_ routine very much, and apparently so did everyone else – after his first performance of it at a competition, his level of renown had tripled, and he had been asked to perform it again and again at various special occasions.

 _Including our new king's coronation night. Who would have thought it?_ Chris smiled to himself as he breathed in the heady scents of the flowers in the evening air. Perhaps he would even seduce young Yuuri himself – the shy young king wasn't Chris' type by any means, but it wouldn't hurt to give it his best shot. _What else am I paid for, after all?_

Suddenly, a hot spike of pain shot through his right leg, and he cried out and fell to the ground. When he clutched at his foot, his hand came away bloody. Chris managed another cry before his head began to spin, and he blacked out on the stone path.

 

“ _Oh no! So he didn't get to dance for Yuuri?” The pretty boy's eyes are round as saucers._

“ _Stop interrupting and I'll tell you! You said you would stop!”_

“ _Oh, right. Sorry.” There is a short pause. “You're a very good storyteller, you know.”_

“ _...Thanks.” The fierce one looks at the ground between his leather shoes, before continuing._

 

Chris opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a myriad of colours. He was lying on some kind of mattress, supported by soft down cushions. Face up like this, he could see no ceiling, only overlapping layers of cloths, dyed every colour of the rainbow and stretching off into the distance. When he eventually sat up and leant back on his arms for support, he was surprised to find that he was in no pain at all. There was no throbbing in his foot, and when he looked down at it, there wasn't even any wound.

Perhaps strangest of all was the realisation that he was not alone. Chris was skilled in the art of remaining calm in any situation – and he had seen _a lot_ of unusual things - but even his instincts were being tested by the stranger sat a few feet away, watching him with possibly the brightest blue eyes Chris had ever beheld.

He could not have been human, of course. Chris had never seen a nymph before, but he was certain that the pointed ears and exquisite elfin features could belong to no other creature. The nymph's most striking feature was his hair – it fell in thick, impossible tresses, shining like liquid silver that pooled onto the cushions around him.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

The ethereal eyes seemed to glitter with understanding, but there was no reply.

“Why am I here?”

No answer, but the nymph leant forward, and reached out a pale hand. Chris remained perfectly still as one pale finger touched his forehead. The nymph's skin radiated a strange, heady scent, something akin to ocean spray and lavender, but he was sure that it was more than that – when a few strands of silver hair rustled forward, Chris could have sworn that he heard music.

As he stared into twin glimmering blue pools, a voice chimed through Chris' mind, ringing like a nail against crystal.

_Find the one who loves me. Then we shall be healed._

The words were tinged with an impossible sadness, and Chris found himself overcome with emotion, swept over by memories of a landscape he had never seen, sensations that he could not quite get a grip on to understand but longed to know.

Unable to stop himself, he reached up a hand to touch the nymph's radiant cheek, but the creature sprang away, expression horrified.

“No! Don't-” Chris cried out, losing all composure, but as he moved forward, he felt himself fall backward into blackness, the nymph's words reverberating in his skull.

_Find the one who loves me._

_Then we shall be healed._

 

He woke up to smothering sheets and burning heat. His whole body felt weighed down, but when he attempted to push himself onto his elbows, the world went into a spin.

“Shhh, hush now, lie back and be still,” said a kind voice, but it took a few seconds for Chris' vision to bring its owner into focus. The woman looking at him in concern was younger than he had expected, dark hair and a soft mouth. She was holding a bowl of water and a cloth, and the dark circles under her eyes suggested she had been up for far too long.

“You've been unconscious for three days. Don't exert yourself,” she said sternly, dabbing at his brow with her cloth.

“Three...Three days? But...why?” Chris' tongue was thick around his words, and the woman handed him a cup of water. It felt like cold nectar sliding down his throat.

“Snakebite. Viper, I think, but we can't be sure of what kind since no one found you until hours after it happened. Don't-” she put her hand on Chris' arm as he moved to lift the sheet to see his leg, “Don't move yet. I'm going to get someone else to come and look at you.”

She stood up and moved to leave the room, but turned back and looked at Chris strangely. “You were talking in your sleep. If I were you, I wouldn't get involved with things you don't understand.”

Chris was left alone to ponder her words. What could she mean? What had she heard him say? And what were the 'things' he didn't understand?

All he knew was that he had missed out on his biggest chance at success, the moment he had been building up to all this time. He was still wearing the deep blue tunic he would have worn to dance for the king; his silver circlet, he saw, had been placed on a low table beside him. Chris' instinct was to dismiss the situation and 'move on', but, as he was, that would have been physically impossible. All he could do was wait for the young nurse to return.

It then occurred to him that he had no idea where he was. The room his cot was in was small, but richly decorated, with frescoed walls and mosaic tiling on the floor. There were several other cots around the room, and a cupboard in the corner, but he seemed to be the only occupant for now.

_Wait a minute._

Chris turned to look at the walls again – the paint of the frescoes was bright on the plaster, the colours rich and new; the yellow tones had an unmistakeably gold tint to them. The linen sheets he had felt so suffocated by in his fever were actually incredibly soft, their material fine-woven and impeccably clean.

He felt his stomach tighten as he realised the gravity of the situation: he was still in the palace.

 

Over the next few days, it became clear that Chris was not going to recover easily. He suffered bouts of extreme pain from his wound, that had already become infected. His leg was swollen and oozing pus, in spite of the physicians' best efforts to drain it of liquid or smear it with various strong-smelling ointments. Nothing worked.

Between his attempts to get some respite from the pain, Chris became more and more confused as to why he was still in the King's palace. There was no reason to keep him here – he did not work for the King; he hadn't even had the chance to do his one job at the coronation night. _I might never dance again_ , was what he thought in the darkest of times, although he was ignoring that possible outcome for the moment.

On the fifth day, he was visited by Sara, which he had found was the name of the dark-haired woman who had nursed him back to consciousness. She worked alone most of the time, though there were occasionally official-looking physicians who appeared not to do very much other than disturb her. Since her strange comment on his first day awake, she hadn't said anything even vaguely hinting at the supposed 'things Chris didn't understand', so he had decided to let the matter go. Their forced closeness had led to a few more conversations, however, and Chris found that he was growing to like Sara's company – she was unflinchingly stern when it came to her work, but sometimes he caught glimpses of a softer side he was sure she was hiding.

Today she seemed particularly agitated as she changed Chris' bandages, and Chris found himself gasping.

“That's too tight, that- hurts-!”

Sara looked up at him with a start, as if only just realising that he was there.

“I'm so sorry, I'll start again!” The dressing was only slightly looser the second time around, but Chris gritted his teeth, preferring instead to ask Sara if anything was happening in the palace.

She looked at him, and he was a little surprised to see her wearing a panicked expression.

“The King is coming. Or rather,” she amended, “You are sent for. But you cannot be moved, so. He is coming here. Today.”

Chris was stunned. _The King?_

“But surely he's busy, isn't he? I mean, he's barely been in power for a minute.”

Sara was furiously rushing around the room now, a human whirlwind manically rearranging everything from the rushes on the floor to the folded sheets in the wardrobe. In his still slightly fevered state, Chris could only see a blur of dark hair and the faded apricot colour of her long linen _stola_. He himself was feeling not a little anxious about the whole thing, which in itself was making him more nervous – Chris rarely lost his cool.

The next thing they knew, there were voices in the hallway outside, and Sara rushed over to stand by Chris' cot, as though they were two children owning up to some sort of petty crime.

First to enter the room were three older men Chris assumed to be advisors, wearing white flowing _toga praetextas_ , gleaming white with purple borders to indicate their status. They all dutifully ignored Chris and Sara, watching the door intently as the King, Yuuri himself, stepped into the room.

 

“ _King Yuuri! What did he look like?” squeaks the prettier boy, hugging his knees in delight. The listeners are familiar with how he feels – they already know that merely speaking a name can send you into swathes of rapture and ecstasies of blissful panic._

“ _Well, you chose his name, I guess he looks like whoever 'Yuuri' is,” grumbles the dark one. He realises with a start that for a short while, he forgot that his avid listener had personally added this character to his telling of the legend. In the firelight, in the night air, it becomes easy to forget loneliness._

“ _Handsome, tall, with dark hair that curls slightly at the ends, light brown eyes, and the most beautiful smile-”_

_This sounds too much like a list that will never end, thinks the fiercer boy. He rushes back into his tale without waiting for his audience to stop talking._

 

Chris was surprised by how quiet the young king's presence was. He did not hold himself in a powerful manner; on the contrary, his slight frame and fluttering hands made him look quite delicate, maybe even fragile. As was custom, he was wearing a purple _toga purpurea_ , the fabric finely woven and tailored to fit, coloured entirely with Tyrian dye crushed from ten thousand seashells. Since he was not venturing outside the palace, the cloth of the toga was free of any embroidery, but Chris was sure that kings were supposed to at the very least adorn themselves with jewellery (not that he had ever seen any until today).

Modesty, however, appeared to be the watchword of the young king, whose only decoration was the regal circlet of laurel leaves nestled in his raven hair. He stood silent for a moment, contemplating Chris and Sara before him, before saying in a gentle voice:

“So you are the one who was bitten by the snake, the one who did not dance for me.”

Though the voice was soft, Chris nevertheless felt the words stick in his throat at the realisation that he was about to address a king.

“Y-yes, your highness,” he managed weakly, attempting to sit up better in his cot but merely sending a burning pain shooting through his leg. He cried out, unable to stop himself, his vision clouded by yellow patches as his wound throbbed.

At last he felt a cool hand against his brow as the convulsions subsided. When he was able to see clearly again, he was shocked to find that Yuuri had dismissed his advisors from the room, and was now quietly talking to Sara, sat beside the slave-girl against all rules of convention.

“And he has been this way ever since?” he heard the young king say.

“Yes, your Highness. Though I have tried my best, he still suffers terrible agony.” Sara sounded weary, and Chris could not help but note the difference between the woman who had so frantically prepared for the king's arrival, and this tired nurse who might have been talking to a close friend.

Yuuri must have noticed then that Chris' eyes were open, and he addressed his next question to him directly.

“For how long have you danced?” He sounded genuinely interested.

“Since I can remember, your Highness.”

“And your dance for the night of my succession, what was that to be about?”

“A portrayal of 'Fervor', your Highness.”

The young king's eyes widened, as though enthralled by the idea that anyone would perform for _him_ , of all people.

“Tell me. Tell me about your dance.”

 _How unassuming he is,_ Chris thought, and then: _How young._ It struck him that he was probably older than Yuuri, whose bright eyes and slight build aged him down even younger. _Perhaps he is lonely; he must work with so many of those stuffy old advisors every day. How often is it that he can speak with others of his own age?_

So he told him. He told Yuuri everything about ' _Fervor_ ', from his conception of it as a teenager, in lust for the first time, to the many performances of it he had danced across the Empire, to the movements of the dance itself: the constant pleading arms that seek a redemption they never find, the caresses of the air and of his own body that could make every member of the audience swoon if captured at the right moment, the final drawn-out spin that gradually accelerates into a blur as the pull of desire becomes strong enough to overcome the dancer.

Throughout this lengthy explanation, Yuuri said very little, though his eyes lit up more and more until Chris was sure he was going to be blinded. It was only once he had finished that Yuuri turned to Sara, who was busying herself with some bandages for the next dressing, and asked her excitedly:

“How long before Chris can dance again? I would truly love to see him perform as he should have done that night.”

Sara swallowed, and Chris felt his stomach begin to turn. She answered Yuuri, but all the while she did not take her eyes from her hands and the bandages. Her lower lip was trembling.

“We cannot be certain, your Highness. The physicians are now unsure whether the snake that bit him was even a viper, since the wound was infected so quickly and is refusing to heal with the usual treatment for such bites. Even if the abscess drains and the skin eventually closes, it is likely that Chris will be left unable to move his leg as he used to. At it is, however, I really am unable to say whether or not that will happen.”

There was a stunned silence.

Chris felt a pull in his chest, a deep ache as his heart broke. _Unable to move as he used to._ Never to dance again...what could that be like? Never to feel the liberation of the movements, never to work to one's limit for a performance, never to craft the steps together as he walked down a sidestreet – would he even be able to walk at all? It was unfathomable. He had never lived without dance before; he had never thought that he would have to. Never to perform 'Fervor' again? Or the myths of Theseus, Hercules, the stories of the gods – Phoebus, Jupiter, Neptune-

He felt desolate. His own body felt too big for him, like a suit of armour that someone else had locked him into.

_What am I, if I cannot dance? Who am I, if I cannot move?_

_'Unable to move as he used to'._

 

“Can he be relocated?”

“What?” Chris blurted out, before realising that it was the King who had spoken. He hadn't even noticed that Yuuri was still beside his cot.

“Your Highness?” Sara said, unable to stop herself from lifting her eyes from under their long lashes.

Yuuri rose from the low stool upon which he had been sat for far longer than a king was supposed to, Chris was sure. He squared his shoulders, and his expression radiated a new authority that made both onlookers wonder how they could have ever doubted whether he fit his title.

“Can Chris be moved to my chambers? If it is possible, I order it to be done. Call my advisors back in here,” he said, motioning Sara to the door. Looking a little dazed, she quickly left the room, returning with the three bearded councillors in tow, who lined up like a row of puffed-up white doves in their gleaming togas.

Yuuri looked at them staunchly, his chin held high, and repeated his order: “I wish that this young man might be moved to my chambers and given a room until his recovery. See to it.”

Had Chris not been only half-aware of his surroundings, his mind slowly slipping into despair at losing his life's work in a single moment, he might have been more attentive to what the young King muttered under his breath when he took a last look at Chris before leaving the room:

“It's him. He's the one.”

 

They moved him the next day, against Sara's counsel. She insisted on remaining with Chris throughout the procedure, and constantly scolded the four other slaves who carried his cot to the private rooms for the King and his closest relations in the East wing of the palace.

“You mustn't jostle him like that, he's a human being, not a piece of furniture! He has been in agonies for the past week, and I should know, I am the only other person besides the king who actually seems to care about his welfare, so you had better-”

She didn't leave even after they had set him down in his new room, but rather set to work re-dressing his wound and attempting once again to drain it of liquid. By now, Chris' ankle had swollen to the size of a large grapefruit, and the wound throbbed painfully every time he had to move his leg even the slightest bit.

Chris barely cared. He didn't care that he had hardly spoken or eaten all day. He didn't care about his new rooms, lavishly decorated though they were with bright frescoes of forests and birds painted all up the high walls, and the softest of fur rugs spread beneath the cot so that even the mosaic picture of yellow Ceres dancing with her dryads could be enjoyed without cooling one's feet on the floor.

No, none of this held any meaning to him now. Not when his own body had turned against him, robbed him of the one thing to which he would have devoted his life's purpose. Deep down, Chris knew that he should have been grateful for this treatment – as far as he could tell, no king had done such a thing for any other of his infirm subjects. And yet the feeling of numbness remained.

That night, he dreamed of the nymph again. When he opened his eyes to find himself lying on the mattress, staring up at the endless tunnel of coloured cloths, he was shocked that he had ever forgotten the dream at all. He sat up with a start to find the beautiful nymph with the silver hair reclining only half a metre away, a playful smile on his sharp features.

“ _You_ ,” Chris breathed, suddenly hyper-aware of his entire body, down to every tingling nerve ending. Though in the dream his leg was healed, as before, he felt unsure of his appearance in a way he rarely did when around people in the real world. There was no mistaking that even at his very best, Chris was no match for the beauty of such a creature as this, who could have been carved from pure-cut ice.

As he watched, the nymph began to slip his long fingers gracefully through his silver hair, which appeared to rush over his pale knuckles like running water. He lazily combed through each long tress, separating the small tangles and discarding invisible dust specks until the hair seemed not only to shine, but to _glow_ of its own volition.

Chris was transfixed by the sight. Occasionally, the nymph seemed to become aware of his gaze and raised those ravishing blue eyes to meet Chris' own with a small smile. Did he know what he was doing to the human sat across from him? Could he hear how fast Chris' heart was pounding? If he could, the nymph showed no sign of it.

After what felt like both an age and a mere breath, the creature seemed satisfied with his work, and let out a deep sigh that tugged at Chris' heart more than anything he had ever heard. It sounded both young and ancient, the lament of an eternity with the voice of a single youth. It sounded desperate.

Remembering what had happened last time, Chris moved forward slowly on his knees, and stopped about two feet from the nearest silver pool of hair on the mattress. Despite his overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around the nymph's slender body, to press his lips to that silvered cheek, to give himself up for the taking no matter what the cost- Chris managed to remain composed.

All he did was reach out his hand.

He left it there in the air, not daring to cross the invisible boundary between them, and not expecting any kind of response, physical or otherwise. Instead, he closed his eyes, unable to face the nymph as he made this humble request for – _for what?_

Chris didn't realise that he was trembling until he felt the nymph's cool hand steady on his chest. He opened his eyes to see the elfin face rumpled by an expression of beautiful concern and gratitude, half a breath away from his own. The nymph looked down at his empty hand in the air, before taking it in both of his own – Chris felt an imprint over his heart even after the nymph took his hand away – and turning it over and over like a toy. It was entrancing to watch the creature frown as it traced its fingers over the lines in Chris' palm, perhaps trying to untangle them as he had untangled his hair; the sight was unbelievably innocent and yet Chris found himself so completely seduced by it that he dared to speak again:

“Are you...alone?”

The nymph looked back up at him quizzically, still daintily holding his hand between his fingers. Chris blushed, yet another thing that rarely happened in the real world, and wondered whether there was any point in speaking at all.

_Why speak, when you can show?_

Ever so gently, he leant down a little, and touched their foreheads together, feeling the silver-grey river mix a little with his own blonde curls. He heard the nymph's breath, and smelled the same scent of his skin that he could not believe he had forgotten – _sea-salt and lavender, sea-salt and lavender, sea-salt and lavender_. Eyelashes brushed against his left cheek. Chris knew in that moment, as he had never known anything before, that he would die for this ethereal being.

_Find the one who loves me. Please._

The voice rang through his mind just like the last time, only now there was a sense of deep urgency; when he drew back, he saw that the nymph was silently weeping, and he felt like he would break apart at the sight. The pale hand pressed against the skin over Chris' heart once more, and the voice came again:

_Please. Please. Find the one who loves me. Then we shall be healed. Find the one who loves me. Then we shall be healed. Please. Please. Please._

Chris felt himself shuddering; he could only watch the nymph cry before him, perfect waterfall tears running down those beautiful cheeks. He had no answers to give, he couldn't solve the riddle. The words reverberated through his mind, the echoes overlapping them into a chorus of tearful sirens as the world around him began to fall apart.

_Please. Please. Please. Please._

_Find the one who loves me._

_Then we shall be healed._

 

He found himself being gently shaken awake, and for a minute he didn't know where he was, before remembering the high ceilings of his new quarters in the East wing of the palace, now shadowed in darkness. It was still night.

“ _Chris!_ ” Another light shake on his shoulder, and Chris bit back a cry of pain as his foot was moved. He was startled to look up and see the king himself standing beside his bed, looking at him with urgency.

“Your- Your Highness?” Chris began, incredulous, but Yuuri motioned silence with a finger to his lips.

“Can you stand?” he asked in a whisper.

“I-” Chris was in shock. The King was standing in his bedroom, the bedroom he had gifted to Chris, in the middle of the night, wearing only his tunic and no laurel wreath. Chris was confused enough that he actually answered the question. “I haven't...been able to yet. We've been trying but-”

“Would you try please, for me?” asked Yuuri politely, as if he didn't realise that he had the power to make hoards of people march across countries or build immense towers 'for him'.

“I... I will try, your Highness.”

It took Chris a good few minutes to sit up in the cot, and several more for him to ever-so-slowly shift his legs over its edge without losing his balance. Twice he moved too quickly, and had to grind his teeth down hard to stifle the cries of pain. Once he got to the edge of the cot, he found Yuuri standing beside him, offering his arm.

“But, your Highness-”

“You won't be able to stand by yourself,” Yuuri said quietly, placing one of Chris' arms around his shoulder and waiting for him to put the weight of his other foot on the floor. “And please call me Yuuri. Tonight, I am not your king. I am a friend.”

Chris stared at the young man for a moment. _So he_ is _lonely._

He gingerly pressed his healthy right foot into the soft fur rug under his cot, gritting his teeth as the shifting weight began to cause twinges of pain in his left. Yuuri put his hand round Chris' back and said firmly:

“Now, on three, you stand.”

“But-”

“One, two, three!”

Chris bit down hard, but a strangled cry still rose in his throat and threatened to wake Sara who was asleep in the smaller room next door.

After a couple of seconds, the discomfort subsided to a low, grumbling ache, and Yuuri gestured forward to the open door of the room.

 

They walked like this, with Chris leaning on Yuuri's shoulder, for what felt like hours, although Chris knew logically that they had only passed through perhaps seven shadowed corridors at the most. It was slow going, particularly as they had to stop every twenty or so steps for Chris to catch his breath and recover himself. The pain was like a bubble that threatened to burst every time he swung his left leg forward.

Yuuri seemed not to need as much time to rest, in spite of practically carrying a taller, more heavily-built man for however long; he had barely even broken a sweat. _Good stamina,_ Chris thought vaguely, _Pretty incredible, actually._ He wondered if Yuuri knew that he had such a talent, or if it was something he had ignored all his life. Would stamina be useful for a king?

Eventually, they came to what looked like a dead end, until Yuuri walked straight up to the wall and Chris noticed a faint outline on the stone, made prominent by the moonlight. A hidden door. The young king retrieved a key from somewhere in his tunic and slipped it into a crack that clicked softly.

Yuuri pushed the door open, before returning to offer Chris his shoulder once more and helping him through the small dark passageway.

It was only a few steps, and then suddenly Chris felt a light breeze on his face. They were outside. Were they?

Yuuri helped him to a small bench just inside the door, and once they had arranged his foot comfortably, Chris had a chance to really take in his surroundings.

The secret room was a garden, enclosed by walls on all sides. This in itself was not unusual – plenty of ordinary houses had enclosed gardens – but the way that this one was arranged was striking. It was full to bursting with flowers, and Chris was sure that if it had been daytime, he would have been blinded with colour. As it was, the moonlight had crystallised every petal and dusted each leaf with a coating of silver sugar. There was a small artificial stream running through the garden, making only the slightest of sounds as it rushed past a few trailing branches. Chris wondered how long the garden had been there – it looked impeccably maintained, and yet there was a wildness in the sheer height of every flowering bush, in the tangles of colour that would never have been arranged that way on purpose.

“I come here very often.”

Chris looked up to see Yuuri standing by a willow tree, placed at the centre of the garden and stretching through the open roof into the open night sky. The young king was looking up into the branches wistfully; for a moment it seemed as though he was going to reach an arm up between the leaves, but he didn't.

“I'm not what people expect, you see,” Yuuri began again, turning away from the tree and walking the few steps back to Chris, who felt emboldened enough to agree.

“No. You're not, your High- Yuuri.”

Yuuri looked at him gratefully before continuing.

“I don't particularly enjoy leadership, and I'm certainly not one for speeches and great powers of rhetoric, I never was. As I got older, the prospect of ruling over thousands of people has come to terrify me more and more. It still does.” He smiled wanly. “It has become...an illness. Something I from which I know I will never recover.”

“You are...dying, your- Yuuri?”

“It isn't nearly so simple.” Yuuri turned away from Chris and gazed back at the willow tree, cast into a stone statue by the moonlight. “I have fits. I lose control of myself and my emotions. Hardly fit for a king of course. So when my father was on his deathbed, I had this place sealed off and turned it into somewhere I could rest, alone.” He sighed. “I have strange dreams about it sometimes. Beautiful, but strange.”

Chris did his best not to appear startled; for all he knew the king could be talking about any dream, although the rapid pace of his heartbeat would say otherwise.

“How do you mean, strange?” he asked, hoping that he sounded casual. Yuuri looked too far gone into his mind's eye to really notice anything, but all the same -

“Well, they're all the same. And, I couldn't tell you how, but it always feels much more like a memory than a dream. I'm walking into the garden, and I go to that willow tree there and reach out my arm. Then the bird comes down, and its-” Yuuri shook his head, as is disbelieving his own words, “It's white, so...so white. Like the purest snowfall.” He stretched out his arm, as though the bird would swoop down then and there. “It lands on my wrist, and then I hear... I hear a voice...”

Chris was on the edge of his seat, barely able to hold himself back from telling the young king everything about the silver-haired nymph and his riddle, but he waited for Yuuri to finish.

“The voice,” the young king was saying, “The voice is...in my head. And it tells me, every time: “Find the one to heal us. Find the one to set me free.” Over and over again, “Find the one to heal us. Find the one to set me free.”' Yuuri suddenly looked at Chris, his eyes alight. “And I didn't know what it meant at all, how could I have? But now,” he seemed ready to spill over with quiet excitement, “Now I'm sure! I _know_ it was _you_ I had to find! To _heal_ you and maybe me too!”

Against all logic and sense, it was then and there that Chris decided not to tell Yuuri about the young nymph from his dreams.

 

“ _What?!” exclaims the enraptured audience member on the opposite side of the bonfire. “But why would he do that to Yuuri?”_

“ _Don't you understand?” snaps the dark-haired one before he can stop himself. “He was in love with the nymph. He wanted him for himself.” The boy looks at the ground and mutters quietly, “Love is selfish.”_

_The prettier one looks taken aback, as though he has just overheard some forbidden truth._

_Those who watch over this road know that the dark-haired storyteller is right; they see his anger and frustration, and his attempts to stifle the beginnings of a yearning he does not understand, but they also see his youth. He will learn that love must be both selfish and selfless, if it is to last. He will learn this very soon._

_But first he must finish his tale._

 

For the next few nights, Chris dreamed of nothing. His days were spent restlessly trying to recuperate in the cot, helplessly waiting for the waves of pain to come and go.

Sara was there less and less in the evenings, though she dutifully tended to his wound throughout the day and at night when necessary. Chris suspected that she had found someone else to occupy her time, and he was happy for her. Considering how hard she worked, she deserved a break and someone to share her feelings with. He didn't know who it was that she was seeing, but they seemed to be making her smile more often when she thought he wasn't looking; clearly, they were doing something right.

For his part, he was feeling lonelier than ever as he vainly tried to wrap his head around the fact the he would never dance again. There was no worse thing in the world, he was sure. It felt like he had lost his closest friend, or even a limb rather than an ability. _I might as well lose my leg for all the good it does me_ , was something that he thought far too often, even after a particularly 'good' day when Sara had informed him that the physicians would not need to amputate. The only thing upon which he could fix his mind without pain was the nymph from his dreams, and so he would lie there longing for him for hours at a time.

Four nights after the king's first visit, he came to Chris again, and as before they half-walked, half-limped to the hidden door in the wall, where Yuuri unlocked the walled garden and sat Chris down on the same bench.

Yuuri hadn't said anything beyond a few monosyllables on their way to the garden, and now it looked like they were just going to pass the night in silence. What were they waiting for? Chris wanted to ask desperately, but he dared not disturb the king, who walked round and round the garden, touching a different flower here, sniffing another one there, and all the while frowning as if he had expected something different to happen. But what?

Hours passed, and still nothing happened.

By now, Chris had guessed what Yuuri was waiting for: he wanted the white bird from his dream to fly down into the willow tree. Given that all _he_ wanted in the world was to meet a silver-haired enchanter that he had only ever seen in his dreams, Chris couldn't exactly criticise the king (not that he would have anyway), but there was something impossibly sad in the way he kept looking over his shoulder at the trailing willow branches.

Chris shut his eyes, unable to look at Yuuri's pacing circles any more.

 _I've found him. He's here._ He tried his best to send the thoughts impossibly out into space, as though he was praying or wishing like a child on their name-day; Chris had never truly believed that such thoughts could carry power, but this was more important than anything else. If the nymph had promised to 'heal' him in exchange for meeting Yuuri, then there was nothing Chris would rather have wished for. He willed the words into existence with all his might: _I've found him and he is here. Come to us, please, heal us. I've found him for you._

He opened his eyes at Yuuri's startled gasp.

Something was rustling on the inner willow branches.

_Inconceivable._

Yuuri looked barely able to comprehend his own actions; his arm seemed to lift of its own accord.

Then, a bird with feathers of the purest white flew to his wrist, settling itself comfortably as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Chris knew that he had never seen the bird before, and yet-

There was something about the long silver-grey tail-feathers, and the curious playful way that the bird held itself, that was strikingly familiar. He had no doubt that this bird and the ethereal being of his own dreams were one and the same.

All at once, he stood up, teeth gritted against the pain in his leg, and steadied himself against the wall.

Surely the bird - the nymph – would keep its promise. Surely it would turn its lovely, silver-crested head to look at him and all of his pain would dissolve away. Surely...Surely he would be healed.

But Chris could only watch, powerless, as the bird's unmistakeable blue eyes were fixed on the chocolate brown ones of King Yuuri. There was absolute silence as the two of them gazed at one another, Yuuri looking like he had just discovered he was fluent in a language he never thought he could speak. The bird slowly spread its wings, as if it knew that the young king was easily alarmed, and flapped over to land on his thin shoulder. Chris had thought that his heart had already broken when told he would never dance again, but this was a different pain that he had never thought he would understand; no one had ever said no to him before, after all.

 _Look at me,_ he begged soundlessly, _Look at me, please!_ If the bird – the nymph – would only turn those twin sapphire eyes to look at him, all of this pain, all this suffering, would dissipate. Surely, surely... One look, that was all it would take. _Please!_

_Please!_

He remembered nothing of how he managed to return to his room, helped by Yuuri or not, he wasn't sure.

When his eyes opened to the billowing sky of cloth once more, it was as though his heart had been twisted into knots.

Chris sat up, preparing himself to confront the nymph who had so cruelly lied to him, but when he did, he saw that the space on the mattress in front of him was empty.

For the first time, he felt cold in this strange place. There was a strange wind whipping through the layers of cloth above him, and although Chris had never felt the need to look further than the mattress before, he craned his neck to try and catch any glimpse of something that could lead him to the nymph.

There was nothing but chilling white space as far as he could see; even the colours of the cloths around him looked like they were fading into the background.

“No! No!” he cried out as he looked down to see his own body fading into transparency. “Please! Where are you?” he called, desperate. “Where are you?”

His cries were not even answered by an echo.

The last thing that Chris had expected was the king to visit him immediately after they had found the mysterious bird in the locked garden.

But that was exactly what the king did the very next afternoon.

“I want you to teach me to dance.”

Chris stared at Yuuri, who was standing with his chin held high and his fists clenched. He could have been wrong but he was sure that he could see him trembling. This was what he had dismissed Sara from the room to talk about? Not the bird?

“Your Highness... I'm not sure I understand.”

“I would like you to teach me to dance. I will not order you to do so,” Yuuri continued, putting his hands behind his back and pacing forward a few steps before turning back to face Chris, “But I think we would both find it beneficial.”

“How so... your Highness?”

Chris was struggling to keep his composure; facing Yuuri so soon after losing the beautiful nymph to him was proving difficult. He knew that he shouldn't blame Yuuri for this – how could he have known? - but the sting of hurt and rejection would not be fixed by a mere recognition of the truth.

Yuuri had not noticed his grimacing expression and so was still talking.

“Well, it is the best I can do for you personally. I cannot heal your wound, I am no physician, nor am I a skilled nurse like Sara, but I can give you the opportunity to spend more time on what you feel is most important. Which is dancing, is it not?”

He paused for Chris to give a succinct nod, before he continued.

“As for myself, I have always loved to dance, and I would be honoured to be taught by such a master of the art. It will also aid me in-” he looked at the ground, “- in overcoming my own problem.”

“Your Highness,” Chris began, “Is this anything to do with...?” He raised his eyebrows so that Yuuri would know what he was implying.

“...No,” Yuuri answered, sounding a little hesitant. “While I may have...recently found a possible _cure_ for my...condition, this idea was most certainly my own.” He looked back up at Chris with a new conviction. “I am firmly of the belief that we would both be happier if you were to teach me to dance. So, I now ask you, will you do it?”

“No. No, I will not.”

Chris' voice was deathly calm. He could not believe that he had just refused the request of a king, but somehow he was still managing to speak without faltering.

“I will not teach you,” he heard himself say, “Because you do not understand the pain that I am in. You think that you and I are similar because we both suffer. We are nothing alike.” He gasped as a twinge of pain shot through his left leg. “I can barely walk as it is, and since this wound appears not to be healed, even though I was promised that it _would_ , I have been left to wait for far more dire consequences than not being able to dance. You pity me, don't you?” he asked, softly.

Yuuri turned away from him instantly as though he had been struck.

As he looked at the young king's shoulders failing to reign in their shudders, Chris was suddenly unsure.

 _What am I doing?_ he thought, _Am I a man who would tell this boy to give up on himself, simply because I have given up? Is that what I have become?_

The young king had walked almost to the open door of Chris' rooms, and squared his shoulders and lifted his chin before Chris called out:

“Yuuri!”

When he turned around, Chris saw that Yuuri's eyes were ringed with redness.

“I will not teach you because you pity me,” Chris began again, hoping against hope that this would work. “...But I will teach you because you pity yourself.”

Yuuri looked at him inscrutably for a moment, before he nodded slowly.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I will send for you when I have arranged our first lesson.”

 

From then on for the next four days, Chris spent more time in his head than he ever had done before. He tried the best he could to channel his restless energy left over from lying around all day into creating a new routine for Yuuri.

Sara was a little rumpled by this; she seemed to think that Chris retreating into himself was some sort of by-product of her frequent evening absences, so she stopped taking them.

This produced a very interesting outcome on the third day she did this: around sunset, Sara was applying a new ointment to Chris' bandages, recommended to her by a healer friend, when all at once she was swept off her feet from behind, to the surprise of both nurse and patient.

“Put me down! I said put me down, Mila!” she squealed as she was literally hoisted into the air by a tall young woman with flaming red hair and a wicked grin.

“Have you been stealing my Sara away from me?” Mila asked Chris innocently, ignoring the protests of her unwilling prisoner.

“As a matter of fact, I haven't,” Chris replied smoothly. It had been so long since he had had a proper conversation, and he was going to enjoy it. “She's chosen to spend her extra time here of her own volition, I'm a mere bystander.”

“A mere bystander huh?” Mila put Sara back on the floor as if it was nothing. “Some bystander who gets invited to the king's chambers over a snakebite.” She folded her arms; a challenge. Chris was liking this girl already.

“He wasn't invited here, the king ordered him to be moved in sympathy for his missing out on dancing at his coronation celebration,” Sara huffed, returning to rubbing ointment into the bandages on Chris' bedside table.

“Woah,” Mila's eyes widened a little, and she grinned even wider, “You're the man who danced ' _Fervor_ ' aren't you? I have a friend who left her lover after watching you perform.” She snuck up to Sara and wrapped her arms around her from behind. “You haven't seduced my little Sara, have you?”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Chris answered graciously, as Sara started grumbling in the background - “Who are you calling _little_ , I'm several years older than you, you know!”

It was entertaining to watch how flustered Sara got when wooed by her cheeky suitor – Chris felt as though he was watching himself in a past life, way back a hundred years ago when he could walk and had several admirers of his own. He was seeing a different side to the busy nurse who only had time for her work; she was flushed and giggling in spite of herself, even flirting right back at Mila when she teased her.

“I heard a rumour that the King will be taught to dance,” Mila said to Chris after a particularly loud peal of laughter, “It's you who will teach him, isn't it?”

“Yes, and he'll ruin all of the hard work I've put in to get him healthy again,” Sara answered for him, looking more concerned than her irritated tone would have suggested.

“I'll barely move, Sara; I have to teach, not dance,” Chris tried to reassure her, and Mila wrapped her arm across her lover's shoulders.

Sara met his eyes mistrustfully, daring him to prove to her that he would not worsen his condition. Chris knew she was right; there was no way to guarantee that teaching Yuuri to dance would be completely harmless. But what else could he do? He knew that if he did not do something soon, he would quickly be overcome with heartbreak, and mixed with boredom that would surely prove disastrous.

“I have a new routine,” he said, ignoring Sara's narrowed eyes as he changed the subject.

“Really?” Mila clapped her hands. “Tell us everything!”

Chris opened his mouth to spill out all of the ideas he had been hoarding and shping for the past four days, but Sara cut him off:

“He can't tell you, it's royal business.” She pointed at the door. “ _You_ have to go now anyway, Mila. Shoo.”

Once Mila had been forcibly extricated from the room with loving words and many hugs, Sara shut the door and returned to sit by Chris' bedside.

For a moment, he thought that she was going to finish his dressing in silence, but as she was changing the bandages, a rather more unexpected conversation arose.

“You remember on your first day here, I told you not to mix yourself in things you did not understand.”

“Yes.”

“And did you?”

Chris' mouth was dry.

“I...I think I _do_ understand-”

“ _Do you?_ ”

Sara's voice was razor-sharp. She looked as if she might cry, or slap him around the face.

“I know more than you think I know,” she said in a low trembling voice, “I know that the king has a secret room, and that both you and he, but _especially_ you, are mixed up with a Caladrius.”

“A Ca-”

“A _white bird_ that will not look at those whom it does not wish to be healed.” Sara looked down at her hands. “I have felt its presence ever since you arrived – _don't_ ask how. That is a story I cannot tell you tonight.”

“But surely, that story is just a legend,” Chris somehow felt the need to protest, “There is no such thing as a bird whose look can cure all ills. ...Is there?”

Sara snapped her gaze back up to meet his.

There was a long silence as they stared each other down.

“You _don't_ understand what it _is_ that you are dealing with,” said she. “You will _lose_ whatever it is you want if you continue as you are.”

Somewhere, deep down, some instinctual part of Chris recognised this as the truth. But the rest of him, the body that yearned to touch the nymph, the heart that ached for the Caladrius' gaze, the soul that wanted, wanted, _wanted_ both at once, did not care.

“I must rest now if I am to be focussed for the King's first lesson tomorrow,” he said coldly. Sara looked taken aback, even hurt.

But there was nothing more to be done.

 

“It's only a few rough ideas, your Highness, based on the different kinds of love that one can feel, the Four Loves in Greek philosophy: _eros_ , _phileo_ , _agape_ and _storge._ ”

Chris was reclining on a couch at the edge of the King's second-largest hall. The room was huge, surrounded by high pillars and decorated with many beautiful statues (although some had had to be very carefully moved in order to accommodate the dancing lesson). The floor had been polished very recently, and Yuuri's reflection mirrored him as he warmed up with a few stretches.

Chris was well aware that he had never taught a dancing lesson before, so he concentrated on teaching the young king the few steps that he had come up with – very difficult without being able to move around his pupil to show him how to position himself, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that as they worked through each basic idea, Yuuri responded with a natural ease.

Where his slight and nervous-looking body had been awkward and too much in the way, graceful lines had appeared, creating an almost ethereal being who held himself with poise and dignity, owning the space around him. He was a natural.

The routine itself was based around four basic movements, one for each of the Four Loves; a skyward-reaching arch for _agape_ , a tight spin for _eros_ , a humourous jump for _phileo_ , and slow rocking arms for _storge_. Yuuri picked up on these very quickly, and actually managed to dance them with great character once he had learned them.

The lesson took all of two hours, before both the young king and his teacher were exhausted. Chris had had no idea that teaching would be so tiring; he was absolutely drained. When he was returned to his cot that first time, looking like he had just run a marathon, Sara said nothing, but her every look said 'I told you so', and when a messenger boy arrived to request that King Yuuri be given a dancing lesson every other day, she snapped at him:

“Tell the King every three days, or he won't have a teacher for much longer.”

And so the regime began. Every third day, Chris taught Yuuri a few more steps here, improved his technique there, practised a spin or a leap with him over and over and over until he was sure that _he_ would have been overcome with fatigue. He had been right about Yuuri's stamina, then. Chris wouldn't have admitted it, but Yuuri had been right about him too: even though he was unable to dance as before, teaching Yuuri was probably the closest he could have come to doing that, and he surprised himself by how much he was developing a knack for it.

The first few lessons were the most challenging for Chris personally – he had to contend with the idea that it was Yuuri who had been chosen by the Caladrius; it was painful to talk to him of love and loyalty when Chris himself felt so betrayed. But, like any good teacher, he had had to learn to place the focus on his relationship with his student, and not with a bird-nymph who he had only seen in a dream. After a while, it was calming to push the tumultuous desire for the silver-haired beauty out of the way with thoughts of how better to teach Yuuri a particular movement.

It became clear very quickly, however, that Yuuri's main struggle was not with the moves themselves, but inside, related to how confident he actually felt. Sometimes he would dance perfectly one lesson and then only a few days later he had somehow decided that he couldn't do it; to Chris, this was something entirely new. He had experienced nerves and adrenaline before, of course, but he had never doubted himself as much as Yuuri was inclined to do.

Once, a few weeks into their regime, he even witnessed the young king come close to breaking down. They were working on the ' _eros_ ' section of the piece, the most technically demanding of the four, and Yuuri could not get past a particularly difficult spin with long, reaching arm movements.

“You have to push yourself past the parts you cannot dance perfectly yet,” Chris was saying, “The techniques _do not matter_ as much as the _emotion_ does.”

Yuuri nodded silently, and took up his starting position again, before executing the spin in exactly the same way as before. He tried again, and then again, looking more and more frustrated each time.

“Just _let go_ , Yuuri, just let yourself get it wrong,” Chris urged him from his couch. “You are trying to portray passion and desire, it isn't the technique that matters-”

“I have to get it right first,” Yuuri muttered, attempting the spin again and groaning in frustration at his work.

“It doesn't have to be perfect-”

“Yes it _does!_ ”

Yuuri looked as shocked as Chris did at his own outburst. “I'm sorry, I...” he trailed off quietly, and Chris could see that sudden burst of frustration retreating back inside to hammer away at him from the inside out. He had never needed to chide Yuuri for anything; as a pupil, he did all of the scolding himself.

“You...you can do this,” Chris tried hesitantly, trying to guess what exactly would coax Yuuri back outwards again. “You're almost there. Try it one more time - ” he settled on a temporary solution to the problem - “try it once more. Think of something, or some _one_ that you would want to see you perform; think about what you would tell _them_.”

Yuuri met his eyes for the briefest of seconds; Chris knew that he knew what he was saying. Likely he had had plenty of people try the same thing with him over many years, considering how deep this problem went. But this time it was different; this time, Chris was in on the secret that Yuuri did have a something-or-someone to perform for. Vaguely, Chris wondered if he was being fair, but then a pang of sadness struck at his heart, and he decided that he didn't care.

In the middle of the hall, Yuuri returned himself to his starting position for the spin, reaching his arms across his body as though caressing the air, and after gritting his teeth and breathing in, he tried it again.

This time, although he still appeared unsatisfied, Chris could see the beginnings of something in the movement; perhaps not the unadulterated sensuality that _he_ would have put into the spin, but certainly...something.

This was progress.

 

That same night, just when Chris had decided that there was a possibility of living his life even after all that had happened, just when he had realised that perhaps letting go of the Caladrius for Yuuri's sake would not be so bad after all, the fever returned.

It was worse than anyone had expected. He tossed and turned in his cot for hours and hours, and Sara tried her best to keep him stable as various physicians and assistants rushed in and out of the room – now that Chris was in the King's favour, anyone who cured him successfully would surely be highly rewarded.

But Chris himself was unaware of all of this. He didn't know that his skin was burned to the touch; he didn't know how many times Sara had had to prop him up and force him to swallow cup after cup of water.

He was dreaming.

Lying back on the huge mattress, the surroundings restored to their myriad of colours, Chris was finally in the arms of the most dazzling creature he had ever beheld. The perfect Cupid's-bow lips that had brushed across his skin seemed to blush at the damage they had done. Their bodies were still flushed in the aftermath. Chris was unable to believe that it had happened, that the laughing turquoise eyes and that lustrous waterfall of hair, now slightly rumpled, belonged to him, to _him_ after all.

The whole affair had been wordless. Almost as soon as he had opened his eyes and burst out laughing for sheer joy at the nymph's return, they had collided. Nothing had been said, neither aloud nor in their minds.

The eternally-young man lay with his head over Chris' heart, exactly where he had made that first imprint on the skin that had never quite faded, and hummed with satisfaction as Chris carded his fingers through each resplendent lock of hair.

It was Chris who broke the silence first.

“You're the bird. Aren't you?”

No answer, but he could have sworn that he saw a small smile cross the nymph's face.

“Is it me that you will heal?”

This appeared to surprise the nymph, who rose to look Chris in the eye. The delicate features were twisted into shock and hurt, but then he looked down at his hands, still on Chris' chest. Guilt.

“I didn't think so.” Chris smiled in spite of himself, allowing the pain to mix with the pleasure of simply looking at the gorgeous young man, and knowing that at least he had granted him this vision, even if it wasn't real. He understood what it meant to comfort and apologise to someone in that way.

“I found the one who loves you. You met him, didn't you?”

The nymph stared at him in grateful wonderment, and nodded slowly. Chris could see exactly when the thought of Yuuri crossed his mind – there was a small spark that lit up his eyes, like a comet crossing a sky in broad daylight.

“You will leave me.”

It wasn't a question.

Returning his careful gaze to the graceful hands he had placed on Chris' bare chest, the nymph peeled them away slowly, separating skin from skin as if moving too quickly would cause pain. Softly, he touched a single pale finger to Chris' left ankle, where the wound would reappear once the dream had ended. Chris held his breath.

Then, as he had expected, the nymph rose to his feet, and began to run across the mattress, away into the blankness beyond.

All of a sudden, Chris changed his mind. He couldn't let the nymph - the caladrius - leave so soon, not now that he had felt that closeness that was unlike anything he had ever felt.

He stood up, and put his hands to his mouth as he watched the shine of silver hair outline the retreating silhouette.

“Wait!” he called, “Wait! I must know!”

He broke into a sprint, but it felt as though he was running through mud. If he lost the nymph now, if he left him again -

“I must know!”

There was no way he could catch up with the nymph, now a mere silver speck on the horizon. Chris' legs were in fits of agony, and glancing down he saw red blotches beginning to break out across his left calf. He didn't have much time left.

“I must know if you will help me!” he cried into the distance, falling to his knees. He could no longer keep himself from sobbing.

There was no reply.

 

Chris awoke in the garden.

His head was splitting with pain; he was drowning in the sheets of his cot and surrounded by voices. Why were there so many people in the King's private garden? Yuuri had told him that it was a secret; had that changed so soon?

He tried to make out the various shapes around him, but his vision was a blur of colours that were too bright to distinguish from one another.

“Chris,” came a whisper close to his ear. Sara. “Are you awake? Nod if you are.”

He nodded, screwing his eyes shut, against both the noises and the itching pain as the feeling returned to the wound on his left ankle.

Sara must have sent some signal, because the crowding noise hushed instantly. Chris heard footsteps as presumably people left the garden. He must have been carried there; that would explain the larger number of people.

But why?

A second attempt at opening his eyes proved more forgiving. He could make out the huge twining bushes of flowers and see the golden sunset reflecting on the waters of the artificial stream.

_Sunset? How long was I asleep?_

He turned his head to try and find Sara, but she was already at his side. She looked even more weary than when he had first seen her. Her eyes that had brightened so much recently were bloodshot and red-rimmed.

“Your fever's broken at least,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I thought... On the fifth day I thought you...” She didn't finish her sentence, but gently put her arms around Chris' neck and held him tightly. He put his hands up to hug her back more out of instinct than anything else – he was in shock.

_Fifth day? How long was I unconscious for?_

The dream began to flood back into his memory all at once: the nymph who had loved him and left him without giving any answers. The Caladrius. And now he was in the garden, the King's garden, where the Caladrius bird had appeared.

“Sara.”

Yuuri's voice carried over to them from where he was stood beside the weeping willow tree, at the centre of the garden. “You must leave us now,” he said, not unkindly.

The young woman who had nursed Chris with such diligence, who had become a close friend to him in spite of their disagreements, gave her patient a final parting kiss on the forehead, accompanied by the words:

“Be wise. Be strong.”

She left without a sound.

Chris turned his attention to Yuuri by the willow tree, who was stripped of all his royal regalia excepting a thin golden circlet around his head, and wore only a simple tan tunic. He waited until all they could hear was the babbles of the water, before stretching out his arm as he had done all those nights ago.

Out of the shadows between the drooping leaves, the Caladrius flew on the whitest of wings to the young king's wrist, where it perched.

Chris felt the same pangs of longing and hopelessness that he had done in his dreams, as well as the last time he had seen the silver-white bird in the real world. He watched through hazed vision as Yuuri whispered a few words to the bird, and caressed the feathers on its head with two fingers.

He thought he was dreaming when Yuuri pointed the bird towards him and it actually took off in his direction. He was almost sure of it when a white haze began to envelope the bird, and he was most certain that he was dreaming once the haze cleared.

Standing there before him, wearing a simple white tunic that shimmered gold in the rays of the setting sun, was the beautiful young nymph from Chris' dreams. His excess of argent hair framed his body in shining waves, even more perfect than Chris had dreamed, but those sparkling cerulean eyes seemed sad.

“The time has come,” he said, in a voice that Chris had only heard before in his mind. Even though the nymph was speaking as any other human being would, that ethereal crystal timbre had not changed at all. “Are you ready to make your choice?”

 

“...And?”

“And what?”

“What happened after that?” The pretty one is on the edge of his seat, incredulous. “There must be more to the story!”

The fierce one is secretly proud of how he has brought his audience to such a tense interest. Those who watch the road have judged him already to be a very proficient storyteller – perhaps he will turn to it more often in the future, though it is unlikely.

There will be no other instance in his life when this tale has as much impact as now. It is impossible to prove that this ancient road has any effect on the stories told here, but there is a strangeness in the air here, the breath of many ages.

“The story has two endings. I don't know which you'd rather hear,” says the dark-haired boy, eyeing the pretty one, calculating. “I could guess, but-”

“Whichever one is happier,” comes the answer. “It has to have a happy ending!”

The prettier boy is not stupid; he recognises how relevant the tale is, but he is not prepared to face what he knows must be the truth.

“Very well. I shall do my best.” The fierce one looks victorious, as though his listener has proved something he thought all along. He would never admit it, but there is happiness there too – he knows what will happen next.

There is a cruelty in what he is about to do, but still, it is necessary.

“The Caladrius nymph tells the dancer that he must choose between putting his own affection first, or allowing the Caladrius to love the one whom it has been seeking. Each choice comes at a cost, but the ending that derives the most happiness is when Chris chooses to free the Caladrius from his affections and permits him to love King Yuuri if he so wishes.”

“How does that make sense?” cries the prettier one, almost in tears. “That isn't happiness! He loses the one he loves and the one who might cure his sickness! What about when he chooses love?”

The young storyteller is a little shocked by this outburst, but he answers:

“The Caladrius bird heals him.”

“You see? _That's_ the happier ending!” Satisfied and stubborn, the pretty one folds his arms.

“Ah, but no.

You see, the deal was not as simple as that. It was an impossible choice. If the dancer chose selflessness, he would lose the Caladrius nymph to the young King -” the dark-eyed boy continued in spite of his audience's raised eyebrows - “but, because of the nymph's gratitude for allowing him to slowly free Yuuri from his anxieties, Chris' wound was healed. He still could not dance and he was left with a scar, but he was able to let go of his infatuation and watch Yuuri become the strong ruler he always had been.”

“But you said that Chris was healed if he chose love!”

“Yes, by the Caladrius _bird_ . As a bird, the Caladrius can heal any sickness completely, leaving no traces. But, I didn't tell you _how_ it heals people.”

The fierce one smirks, daring the prettier boy to ask the question.

“...How does the Caladrius bird heal?”

“It draws the sickness out of you and swallows it into itself. The white feathers turn black and red with the corruption of it, and the bird only has a little energy left to fly. With its last few wing beats, it soars high into the firmament, and straight into the sun, where it burns away every trace of the sickness. But in doing so, of course,” the dark-haired one says in a low voice, “the bird perishes. Both he and Yuuri lose their chance at happiness because Chris decided to put his own affection first. That is how the story ends.”

 

The sky around them is beginning to turn grey: they have talked the whole night through. A few birds somewhere in the distance have started singing their morning songs, and further afield, in two houses not so far apart from one another, two families will soon discover the absences of two boys.

Those who watch over the road are retreating for the night, the story now over, although a few more curious watchers remain close by, just to see what the two characters of this little tableau will do as they set off.

None of them are surprised when the boys agree to journey together in a direction neither of them had planned to travel, Phichit's tears staining Seung-Gil's outer tunic as he admits how wrong he was in pursuing an impossible fantasy of affection. It is obvious to those who are listening that both boys will soon discover that a truer, more trusting kind of love awaits them, and is already closer than either of them would guess.

They do not hold hands as they leave this ancient road, where so many tales have been told, crimes have been committed, goods bought and sold, loves built and lost. They do not hold hands, but they will.

It is a story that has been told many, many times.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Tell me what you thought with a comment, I'd love to know what you thought!


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